My new exciting life as told to me by a dream

As I begin to transition from working to being unemployed, living in Mudville and moving to Muckville, I face a lot of unknowns. Thankfully, I have my dreams to help me interpret a course of action through these bewildering times. Last night's dream--largely influenced by a fancy dinner with bottles of red wine at a local restaurant of note--featured me hanging out with a cast of waiters, chefs and maitre d's (sp?). Before the crowds came, we ate and discussed the food on the menu, gossiped about the staff and held court with the talented and passionate chef. In the dream there was a restaurant coach, a woman whose job it was to make sure the waiters kept it together and the pantries were stocked. When the coach completely messed up her knee--as in she walked in with blood all over her--I was offered the job.

Suddenly I had a new career and a new group of friends with which to eat and drink. The pay was much less and the work much physically harder but the play was of the highest caliber.

I don't remember the chef looking as sexy as the celebrated Anthony Bourdain but the lifestyle was very Kitchen Confidential.

2 Really Good Sunday Morning Things

_{Untitled, Cibachrome print by Jon Huffman}

OK there are two really good Sunday morning songs:

Sunday Morning by the Velvet Underground
and Sunday Morning Coming Down as sung by Willie Nelson, but as written by Kris Kristofferson.

It's just one of those Sundays for me. I was out late. I woke up late. I am out of town. I just made some eggs. I have nothing to do and nowhere to be.

I just love that turn of phrase, Sunday mornin coming down. You just can't forget the religious connotations for a Sunday. Sunday has always been my favorite day. Day of flea markets, brunches, laundry and grocery shopping. And yes, if you ain't got God on your side, it can feel a little lonely. There must be other good Sunday songs out there. Any ideas?

sunday morning, praise the dawning
it's just a restless feeling by my side
early dawning, sunday morning
it's just the wasted years so close behind
watch out, the world's behind you
there's always someone around you who will call
it's nothing at all

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Geesh, what a freakin songwriter, Kris Kristofferson was! Good Lord, the man must have lived some kind of life. Thank you, hoss.

The Best Garage Sale Ever

On Sunday, I had what The Guinness Book of World Records will be referring to for at least the next three decades as, the best garage sale ever. I sold a record amount of crappy goods including, but not limited to: 4 used cans of paint, a 3-legged stool, and 2 frying pans, neither having a lid but both including substantial burn marks on them. By the end of the day I looked like a drug dealer with a fat roll of bills spilling out of my pants. The kids in the neighborhood starting referring to me as il padrino as I tossed them one dollar bills. The trick to having The Best Garage Sale Ever™ is in how you price your wares.

For example, I sold a DVD player for a dollar. Yes, a dollar. Now who could refuse that?! No matter that the DVD player was missing a power cord and its remote. Wouldn't you like to know if it worked for a dollar? A muddy nozzle for a hose? Fifty cents. A bootleg DVD of Mystic River bought on Canal Street complete with a black and white Xerox cover? Twenty five cents! You just can't beat my prices. Sell enough junk, ahem, treasures like that and it adds up.

Then there were the items for which I was so relieved that they were able to get a new lease on life. Like my red and white bottle cap metal stool, perfectly rusted and bent in all the right places. SOLD! To the spunky girl up the street who had to race back home for three dollars. My mid-century wooden arm chair that my ex roommate had left out in the rain one night and thus, permanently warped. SOLD! To the man on the bike who had just moved from Portland and had to come back with his truck.

The only things I was sad I couldn't find a home for were my canning supplies and my shoes. Many women tried them on but alas, there was no Cinderella that day. So I did what any shoe-minded woman would do in such a situation. I took them all back.

I was optimistic that we could have sold all four vacuum cleaners, each one representing a different 20th century decade, but my cohorts demanded we pack it in after the sun went down. Wimps! I am sure there were hoards still in route from the suburbs.

All in all it was everything I could have hoped for and more. I got rid of stuff. I saw some friends. I met new neighbors. And I only had to take home 2 boxes of items that, at the last minute, I couldn't bear to part with.

Kiss Me I'm Irish

Last night, while grabbing a drink with Ms. Dog Walker--one of my last remaining single women friends--and after having sobbed through most of Rent, I met an Irishman. It wasn't that kind of a meeting--he wasn't what I consider within my dating range--however, he did have an intoxicating brogue and a lot to say. For me the Irish, have always been the most romanticized, exotic race. I know this has everything to do with my own mysterious roots, my desire to visit the Motherland, and well, there have been a fuck of a lot of brilliant Irish writers. Seamus is one of my favorite names, Guinness one of my favorite beers, and Gabriel Byrne, my ideal man. And I did once date an Oden Connolly.

We were talking about body language. And about horse language--of course, he was a gambler. He admitted he was a man who had learned a lot about body language in order to pick up women. He said the Irish were much more subtle than Americans. Americans would just out and tell you what they thought, if they were interested in talking more or if they wanted you to bugger off. But the Irish woman would look you in the eye and lie to you. Never tell you what she was thinking. So you had to learn to read the body. Because that was where she spoke her true feelings. It was obvious stuff, crossing her leg towards you or away from you, that kind of a thing.

That's it. It was just a pleasant bar room conversation. So in honor of him, I am streaming a Gaelic radio show this morning. Harps n'all. It's a lovely way to start the morning. Lots of brogue to go with my coffee and breakfast.

la limpia

Last night a curandera and two of her cohorts came to my house to do a limpia. I know my roommate must of thought that I was nuts, but what are you gonna do? The house needed some help, even though I don't plan on staying there much longer, and, well, so did I.

When it comes to faith, when it comes to believing, I've become, let's just say, not that picky. Whatever works, or even, whatever might work, is sorta my new mantra. I think, once I gave in to yoga, it was pretty much downhill from there. So a limpia. Why not?

They came with bundles under their arms, flowers, incense and more. They convened in my living room and wandered throughout the house in hushed tones. They laid out bright fabrics, burned some copal, and began lighting candles.

First, we prayed to the four directions, sage burning the entire time, feathers dusting the smoky air with it's heavy scent. Then we walked throughout the house as they discussed where the energy was blocked, a bit about what I should do to keep it flowing, and then the real cleaning began.

One by one we brushed burning sage, sprinkled rosewater, and dropped petals into every corner, door frame and window sill of the house. We murmured blessings, or, at the very least, wishes for what we hoped to accomplish with this cleansing. We did the backyard and the porch, the closets and the bathroom, nothing was left untouched by our presence.

After two and a half hours, we were done. They recommended I get back into the garden and work with the plants. They suggested I keep the bowls filled with rosewater, the votives in each room, the petals and stones left at every entrance for 7 days. They told me to bury anything left after that time. And I received back my home, smelling of sweet smoke and rose petals.

I am

sick.
Hrmphht.
And back from Lost Angeles.
Where I slept like a baby.
But I found this photo I like when I googled germ.